


The Cave

by sciencemyfiction



Category: White Collar
Genre: character piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In run of the mill tenth-grade literature in US classrooms the country over, kids learn about Plato's story of the cave, of the reality that is perceived differently by each layer of existence. There's the shadows on the wall of the cave, viewed by prisoners who are bound that they might only see the shadows dancing as they're cast by the sounds of others moving behind them, moving between the prisoners and the source of the flame. There's the people moving behind the prisoners, whispering and talking, who see the prisoners and are blinded by the flame, which stands between them and the exit to the cave, and who never leave the cave yet are not prisoners, and so they think themselves transcendent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cave

In run of the mill tenth-grade literature in US classrooms the country over, kids learn about Plato's story of the cave, of the reality that is perceived differently by each layer of existence. There's the shadows on the wall of the cave, viewed by prisoners who are bound that they might only see the shadows dancing as they're cast by the sounds of others moving behind them, moving between the prisoners and the source of the flame. There's the people moving behind the prisoners, whispering and talking, who see the prisoners and are blinded by the flame, which stands between them and the exit to the cave, and who never leave the cave yet are not prisoners, and so they think themselves transcendent. 

Then there are the frightened people who stand in the cave's entrance, blinded by the light of day but not by the light of the torches, aware of the lies and the liars, and the lied-to prisoners, aware that there is a world outside but only gradually coming to see it, let alone risk entering it. 

Danny has been the prisoner, and he has pried himself free, and he has been blinking in the light of the torch, and now he stands at the edge of the cave, staring out into a bleak world full not of perfect art and concept, not of higher reality, but of doubt. He takes back his name, and his mother's name, and he takes his things-- which aren't much-- and he runs. Literally at first, he's good at running, likes to swim, joined the track team for kicks and to score a ride to school in the passenger seat of a sweet 1957 Mustang with the track captain every Wednesday. But that was when he was Danny, and when he was blinded by the torches that stood behind him. Ellen took them down, and it must be cloudy out because Neal can see so far out into this world, and it's ugly, and Plato was an idealistic fool. 

For the first several weeks he's worried every time he hears sirens. He hides it well enough when he's awake, but sometimes he comes out of a dead sleep clawing for the keys to make sure he's in his hotel room and safe, waits in the dark still of three a.m. breathlessly for the sounds to pass and pull away, and sinks back down into his cardboard mattress with a sigh of regret when they finally fade out of hearing. Maybe it's his father and the crooks that must've worked with his father that he fears, people who are meant to be in positions of authority who are ready and willing to hurt people like him or worse, people who trust authority, people who're too naive to know better. Maybe it's the police, or the marshals, or whoever it was that kept him and mom and Ellen in witness protection all these years: maybe he's afraid they'll bring him back to St. Louis and 'Danny' and he'll have to apologize to Ellen for freaking out, for giving up on a perfectly good thing because he was too angry and stupid to hear her out. He doesn't want to admit that maybe she was right not to tell him all this time, maybe-- but it's better not to think about it too much. 

For the first few weeks he has to hesitate saying "Hi, I'm Neal. Oh, uh-- Neal Caffrey." Because he's still not sure about keeping mom's name, and he's learning to be someone who answers to Neal and not Danny. He practices in the mirror. He talks to himself at length when he's alone in his motels, addresses himself by name until it becomes second nature and then slowly he weans himself out of the habit and into some new ones. 

He doesn't exactly make a vow, but he hasn't touched a gun since he ran. Probably a wise choice, he knows it's dangerous to carry and it'd be impossible to get a permit without pulling unwanted attention anyway. Neal reasons that he can't be framed for any crimes if he doesn't even touch guns, let alone risk forgetting them in places where the police might be checking for prints on such a weapon. It's sometime after meeting Matthew Keller that Neal realizes what he's doing. Their last night in Las Vegas: Neal is treating himself to a glass of wine, which he has discovered is the only liquor he could really write sonnets over; in the bathroom of their shared suite, Keller is finishing up his shower. Their third man, James Kinicke, he's out with a girl Neal deemed pretty and Keller called trouble. He probably won't be back tonight. Neal doesn't know yet that they're going to leave him to take the fall, not technically. He is sort of aware, and he lets himself believe they're going to wait for Jimmy to get back. 

The water turns off, Keller stomps around a bit in his pitbull-in-a-china-shop way. Neal fishes through the motel's supplies, retrieves a crappy pen and the little Gideon bible there, smiles to himself. He thinks of defacing the bible's verses. Instead, he lovingly details inside the cover. Neal was never particularly religious to begin with. On the few occasions he was dragged to a house of worship for something other than the art or the music that could come out of them he spent his hours uninspired and uninterested, politely listening to the litany and analyzing as he went to keep from dying of boredom. One subject he'd found fascinating, as he tried to occupy himself through a holiday mass here at the local Cathedral or a weekly sermon there at the Lutheran church up the street, was the question of what the so-called God should look like. 

Neal likes to think that God takes the form of a woman: A voluptuous, middle-aged woman with laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, who wears her robes open to the waist and holds out her hands in invitation to her followers; a mother figure, the bounty of nature in her hair spun out of weeds and grain, evident in her heavy, round breasts; that's the God Neal decided on, and that's what he draws in the book to keep himself from thinking about Jimmy, or about Keller when he comes out of the bathroom wearing just his short towel around his hips. 

"What the hell you doin', Caffrey?" Keller asks without really looking. He goes to the mirror and combs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face and squinting at his fogged-up reflection. The whole room's a bit damp from the hot water running so long. Neal tries to convince himself that he minds. 

He gives a half-lie, tone flat with his undisguised boredom. "Graffiti." It's only after Keller continues across the room and stands behind where Neal is sitting that he gives pause, hesitating as he's detailing the seeds of wheat and barley in his God's hair. He doesn't look over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Pretty good," Keller says, and turns back to the closet, plucking up his nicer set of clothes. They each only have two just at the moment. "Look, we need to get ready to get the hell outta dodge. Might come to grips, you know?"

"So?"

"So?" There's a shuffling sound, and that must be Keller pulling on pants. Neal taps his pen, staring at the window and forgetting about his drawing. 

"What're you saying, Keller?"

Keller claps a hand to Neal's shoulder, and Neal does his best to look totally okay with the surprise, glowering over his shoulder. "Just sayin' you can sleep on the train, buddy. C'mon. You gonna shower? I gotta pick up my piece anyway, left it back in the lobby with a nice old lady's purse." 

The thought that some innocent old doddering grandmother might get arrested for illegal possession of Keller's gun is somewhat distasteful, but not nearly as much as being back down to one-man jobs out in the middle of the Southwest USA. Neal doesn't complain about her, or the gun; he stands up, says "Nah, I'm good to go now," and realizes Jimmy's not going to make it. He should feel worse about that than he does. Jimmy got a nice payoff before they split up for the night. Can't be helped what else happens. 

Keller is in the middle of shrugging on his jacket, and gives Neal a searching look that says he doesn't buy it. He frowns, gets the rest of the way into his coat, claps his hands together and takes a step toward the door. "A'right. Except--" He wrinkles his nose. "I got the pretty strong impression you don't like my piece back there, compadre."

"Nothin' against you." Neal doesn't have to pretend to be earnest, there. "I don't like guns, that's all."

But Keller is shrewd, and his tone reflects a shift in the direction of admiration as he throws open the door and motions for Neal to follow him. "Nah, and why should you? Smart not to get near 'em, they make everything messier'n it has to be if things go south." He leads the way down the hall, and Neal is grateful that Keller has the sense not to continue their conversation until they're safely in the elevator together, Neal standing against the back wall and Keller by the bank of buttons, thoughtfully scrutinizing every one. 

It's a small gesture, so small Neal almost misses it at first. 

Keller taps his back pocket with one finger, and Neal realizes that even though he hasn't got a gun, Keller does have a knife and he probably has more than that on him at all times just in case. The knowledge doesn't scare him as much as he objectively knows it should. Maybe that's because Keller is saying, "Thing is, it's helpful to have a friend who's comfy with guns for a guy like you, Caffrey. That's the kinda friend that has your back when the cops take a potshot atcha."

"Good kind of friend to have," Neal agrees. It's not hard at all to imagine cops doing that; a certain kind of cop, anyway. The kind who might frame their partner for murder, or--

Neal takes that thought back as hard as he can, but he can't crush the anger it stirs in his lungs, can't ignore the doubt it casts on Ellen, or the loathing on himself for not being able to know, to be _sure_ like he should be. It comes out of him in a tight little laugh that he uses to put Keller off guard as he steps closer, puts his lips to Keller's throat while he picks Keller's back pocket and arms himself. There's some victory in the way Keller jumps at the brief contact, looks surprised when he checks to find that Neal is holding his knife. Instead of getting ready for a pissing contest, though, or demanding it back, Keller's face splits into an ugly, toothy grin. "Attaboy. You can keep that one, I got spares." 

Already aware that the effort will be fruitless, Neal shakes his head, tries to offer the knife back gingerly. "I don't really need it."

"The hell you don't." Keller snorts, laughing at him. "I ain't gonna be there all the time to play guardian angel. Take it, I insist."

The bell dings before Neal can say, 'okay', and he manages to conceal the knife on his own person as the elevator doors slide open. Keller retrieves his gun without even interrupting his unwitting elderly accomplice's turn at the slot machine, and they hop a freight train out Vegas together. Keller never mentions the kiss. Neal isn't sure if he's grateful or disappointed. 

He keeps the knife.


End file.
